


body of years (now a pile of bones)

by lightningspire



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canonical Character Death, Drabble, Gen, Introspection, Sad Ending, canon-compliant angst!, could be an ambigious ending, depending on how you look at it, inspired by a poll i saw on twitter like a few weeks ago lmao, you know how it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 05:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17933426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningspire/pseuds/lightningspire
Summary: Noctis Lucis Caelum dies as was written.In his solitude, he regrets everything left unsaid.





	body of years (now a pile of bones)

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically noctis dying but from the perspective of noctis. idk it was just an old wip but polished up after seeing some tweets that gave a few ideas. it's probably not the best but whatever.

There’s one particular painting in the Citadel that Noctis would never give a second glance.

He had seen it time and time again. It was a delicate thing. Methodical brushstrokes, a myriad of careless scraps and scratches from the years it's been hung and moved around the Citadel. The very presence of it was a permanent, if invisible, fixture in his life.

When Noctis passed by that painting for the last time, he lingered just a little longer than usual. His eyes stop and fix start at the center. Four men gathered under a heavenly light that casts away the blight of the daemons, one with his hand raised to the sky. 

He saw in them a sense of strength that he felt he could never, would never, have. 

When Noctis passes by that painting for the last time, he knows better now. He can see his own visage written into fairytales and folklore, created long before he was born. From a once beautiful painting, he sees his the reflection of own eyes and body. The eye sockets have sunken in, deep gray rings plastered underneath. His back arches from ten solitary years that the Astral took away from him. Brittle, barely holding on. He’s ready to break at any moment.

What hurts him the most, as he flips through the pages of his childhood storybooks, is that every fairytale ends the same way. Banners hanging, joyous dancing and plentiful praise as the people of Insomnia dance over the grave of their fallen king.

Noctis wonders why he was ever read such a gruesome tale. Only then does he realize it was never a tale, but a prophecy.

The doors to the Citadel slams open. 

“Noct!” three voices cry in unison.

If not for the immense pain coursing through his body, he would give them all a smile. He can just manage to run his fingers over the rip in his stomach that extends from his navel to the bottom of his ribcage. The stabbing lingers from his father's blade, cutting clean into his gut. 

He wants to sleep. He’s tired, in a way that’s almost cathartic. It could’ve been any like other night; he’ll go to sleep and wake up the next morning with three familiar faces by his side.

Desperate footsteps echo along the walls of the Citadel. His three companions, they approached hurriedly. A hand begins to edge closer to the sword lodged into his chest. Just barely, it brushes the hilt before he pushes it aside. Noctis hurls forward, both arms now grasped on the hilt.

He screams. He cries a vicious howl as he begins to force the blade out from his chest. He can’t see anything around him, nothing except the sword’s beautiful pommel. Taunting imagery of wings, of angels, of freedom. The pattern of the hilt serves as nothing but a cruel reminder of his legacy and his burden. The burden he carries for the sins of someone else.

Once the sword is completely dislodged, he doubles over in agony and exhaustion. Quickly now his throat is filling with blood, his lungs are about to collapse in on themselves, his skin is crumbling away like sand. He can’t see anything, only hear and feel the distressed breathing of his Glaives beside him as the sword crashes to the ground.

The Glaives of The Chosen King; they had each formed a part of his body and now have been torn mercilessly from the flesh.

His arms and legs, giving him the strength to walk through his pain. His torso, holding him upright. His organs, his heart pumping blood through his veins and teaching him to open himself up to the world.

Without them, he's left hollow. He’s wilting.

Without them, he’s bleeding out on his deathbed.

A gentle hand lifts his head and cups the side of his cheek. He hears a mournful whisper of his name. Two more hands come to brace his shoulders and straighten his back before his near-limp body hits the floor.

Despite everything, his body remains whole, the individual pieces returning once more to stand beside him.

With all the strength left inside of him, he musters one last smile. It hurts. So many words left unsaid. Words and secrets that he takes to the grave. They sit inside of his aching bones, waiting for Noctis to fall apart once more. Of everything his life forbade him, one last goodbye was all he could've asked for. But even then, he was asking for too much.

A white sheet falls over the body of the dead king, only to rise once more. A curtain falls on the old era of Insomnia, only to rise once more.


End file.
